Pennies
by whatsamatta
Summary: The photo was old and yellow, but she felt something akin to love for that stranger just the same. Meanwhile, that river flowed and the grass swayed. *an odd idea I decided to try out*


_**Disclaimer: I don't own Hey! Arnold. Truth? I'm kinda sick of HA pairings. Have any of you done a casual search of the catalog recently? With the parameters of being written in English, all ratings included, and complete, it churned out 861 stories, 90% of which are HA Romance. Do you know how many are Stinky? Let me tell you: Three. One is completely, and only one isn't a romance. So sue me if I like kicking your preferable material in the shins. **_

HA

Soft fingers caressed the glass, amazed at how smooth its surface was even now, seventy plus years later. The thin layer of dust cleared a path beneath her digits bringing the faded photo more into view. The once black and white image was stained yellow, bold beneath the brown leather frame, folded once over in some and twice over in other spots.

The men in that 8x10 snap shot stood with their courage proudly on display, their uniforms crisp and their lines tight. There must have been thirty of them, standing neatly in three rows of ten. Grinning from ear to ear, the feeling of brotherhood and patriotism was hard not to embrace; they looked so pleased to serve their country.

The fingers stopped just over the long face of one young man, his nose as tall as his hair. His lips held this sort of half smile, his head half cocked to the side, and although he looked confident, a well-trained eye could see his unease.

"Whatcha lookin at?" a light voice piped up, and a soft set of curls turned to greet the visitor. Brown eyes, hidden beneath straight black bangs and a green cap turned backwards, widened at the sight of the familiar photo.

"Oh, yeah, that was Grandpa's regiment right after they finished basic training in Texas. If he were still around, he would be able to give you the names of all the men." The young women turned back to the picture.

"Which one is your Grandpa, Sarah?"

The brown eyes scanned the glass pane, before placing her own finger softly on face of a young kid with features that she resembled so well. Dark eyes and a short cropping of black hair, a clever smirk on his lips.

"Here's Grandpa. He used to tell me stories about how he and his best friend joined up together. He's in here somewhere, though I can't remember which face is his. Grandpa would always get sad, thinking about that friend he lost not long after they shipped out to Afghanistan." Looking at her friend, she waited for Sarah to elaborate.

"I can still hear him now, '_Most would say it was the sniper fire that killed him, but not me. Stinky was a Mountain Man, and boy howdy, I'd say it was the desert._' He would always go quiet when thinking about him, because they had grown up together. Although Grandpa did always like to brag about how they buried Stinky in that cemetery with a thing of moonshine under his arm and two pennies over his eyes. Something about mountain tradition. Something about that was funny to him." The young woman next to her nodded as she looked over the young men once again, before turning to her friend sharply.

"Stinky? Was that his name?"Sarah laughed as she moved away from the mantle and towards the coat rack.

"Yeah, at least I think so. Come on Allison, we need to get going if we want to catch the movie." And with that, Sarah was out the door and into the garage, leaving her friend to her thoughts.

For some reason, she felt this sort of sad connection with the faces of those brave men, most of them bound to be dead. How must if feel, to be a faceless second hand memory in your best friend's home? She wondered if he left a wife or a sweetheart or something brokenhearted, so that it didn't fall upon a simple photograph, which failed to keep memory. Allison couldn't shake the thought that she probably could have loved the man whose image she traced with her finger.

Too bad he was a nameless stranger to her, immortalized by a photo taken over seventy years ago.

_**~O~O~**_

Falling.

That was the first sensation he felt, falling though layer and layer of disorientation. He had no memory of what he did before, or why he was falling. It was as if he had always been this way. No cause for alarm.

And then he was on his feet, in a meadow by a mountain stream and the woods to his back. The world around him was a bittersweet mixture of grey and yellow, filled with life and yet it was transparent. He could see the field grass swaying back and forth to a breeze, but felt nothing on his cheeks. The birds were singing, but it was none of the birds near to him. Setting down his jug of moonshine – he noticed it was in his hands once he stopped falling – he patted his pockets for, well, he wasn't sure what he was looking for. He simply felt compelled to search his uniform – a soldier's uniform he also noticed once he landed – and felt two pennies in his pockets. Afraid to take them out and lose them, he picked up his jug and began following the water downstream.

Why was he following the stream?

Well, he really had nothing better to do.

During his walk, he would see glimpses of memories; the sound of laughter, the smell of rain on hot concrete mixed with gasoline and street run off, the taste of a chocolate fudge ice cream bar. He had feelings of growing up, having friends. They were far too short though, and none of them brought the profound sense of knowing who he was.

_Oh dig his grave, narrow and deep. Set a jug of whiskey at his thirsty feet. And lay two pennies on his roving eyes. Two women wailing – as the mountains cry. Oh, dig his grave narrow and deep. Set a jug of whiskey, at his thirsty feet. And lay two pennies, on his roving eyes. Two women wailing as the mountains cry._

There was a woman standing on a rock on the bank of the stream, swaying back and forth. Her pretty crème dress adopted a yellow look in the odd light, ruffling with her movements rather than that wind. Her deep, sultry voice repeated that chorus over and over again, and he wanted to ask her what place this was. But he just couldn't.

So on he walked, and on she sang, and it was as if they two hadn't even noticed one another.

He felt as if he walked for hours, days, an eternity, but it didn't matter. He didn't feel tired or hungry. He would take a swig of the magic juice in his jug every now and again, but he would never feel its effects. Another voice soon entered his ears, and this time he found a man dressed in brown work trousers and a stained work shirt, sitting by the stream comfortably.

_I am a poor, wayfaring stranger while travelin thru this world of woe. Yet there's no sickness, toil or danger in that fair land, to which I go . . . I know dark clouds will hover o'er me, I know my way is rough and steep. Yet beauteous fields lie just before me, where God's redeem their vigil keep._ The timber of that voice was thick, twangy and calming to his ears. The young man could hear the cords of a banjo pluck along amiably with the words, even though the man before him held nothing but a straw of hay between his lips.

"Well I'll be damned. Another wayfaring stranger – come on soldier, and take a seat." The stranger invited him, and it was all he could do to nod and sit.

"Say, what would it cost to have a sip o' that there liquid magic?" he asked, and the young man smiled while handing it over.

"Nothing but good company I reckon." Hearing his voice surprised him. How long had it been since that tongue formed words? Made sounds? In any case it didn't matter, as his companion smiled cheerfully and took a large gulp of that good ole moonshine.

"I s'pose I can give ya that. Name's Sam, Sam Tucker." He passed the jug back and held out a hand, which the newcomer clasped with nothing but warmth and friendliness.

"Stinky Peterson. So whaterya doin sittin out here?" Sam chuckled while sitting back to let the missing sun warm him.

"Just watchin the grass grow and waitin for the ferryman. Yer more n' welcome to join me. Both goin to the same place in any case." Stinky looked at him confused, before his fingers went back to stroke the pennies in his pocket while he touched the jug. Why did this sound so familiar?

"How long have I been here?" Stinky asked him, and he watched as Sam sent a look his way from the corner of his eyes.

"Long enough for any sweethearts you may have left behind to meet their own maker." A sudden flash of a young woman with soft brown curls and blue eyes flashed in his mind, wearing strange clothes and a face he didn't recognize. He felt his heart pull to her, as if she were missing and not knowing and loving him all at the same time. But it was gone just as suddenly as it had appeared, taking the image but leaving the feeling.

"I reckon I didn't have time to find a sweetheart to leave behind."

Before the pair could speak anymore, a very feminine voice called out from upstream, and Sam stood, silently bidding Stinky to do the same.

"Check ya pockets! Check ya pockets!" a small river raft, large enough to carry only five people, banked itself as a short woman with short hair leaned on the pole. Her skirts were tied up to show her ankles, but it was more for function than fashion, and her green vest was tight enough to keep her large shirt on but little else.

Smirking she held out a wooden box and shook it gently, letting the sound of metal clanking together wash over them.

"Alright gents, the fee is fifty cents, cough it up or sit down." Sam stared at her wide eyed, before his mouth dropped in fury.

"Fifty cents! I was sent here with only two pennies!" the woman threw her head back and laughed, clinging to the pole for support as she wiped her eyes.

"Well, budget cuts drove up the price. But seeing as I've been back logged for damn near thirty years, I suppose I can let you boys on for the old price. Slip 'em in while I look away." She was laughing again as Sam angrily tossed his coins in the box, muttering something about poor and false advertisement as he sat down next to a man in a business suit. Stinky smiled as he placed the coins in the box and was about to step on when the woman stopped him with her hand.

"Whoa whoa whoa, sorry pal, but I said I'd let you on for a discount, not for free." At the confusion her statement rendered, she pulled out one of the coins to show him.

"These are even pennies, just pieces of copper melted down and shaped to look like 'em." On closer inspection, he found that she was right.

They looked almost exactly like pennies, except when one looked closely, Abe Lincoln was replaced with the profile of a fat-faced kid with a blue ball cap turned backwards on his bald head. On the flipside was a fist, and while it was impossible to tell whether it was male or female, he had the strong sense that it was the iron fist covered in soft flesh that belonged to a blonde little girl he once knew.

Suddenly he could see someone's friend – no, his _**best friend**_- laughing with that green cap of his, tears of both sorrow and joy in his eyes as he told the others about substituting the real pennies for fake ones. They all looked so young in his memory, even though he knew they had to have been far older than that now. Maybe they were just as dead as he was.

Because that's just what he was, he realized.

He was trying to pay the ferryman to take him to the afterlife, with fake coins his friends had made anywhere from yesterday to a thousand years ago. He didn't notice the pennies become real as his knowledge of who he was returned to him. He could only focus on – with stark clarity no less – just how _**cheap**_ his friends really were.

The raft continued down the stream, taking with it a group of people towards the afterlife they had been denied for nearly a century, leaving no one behind. The grey yellow world continued to embrace the mountain folk who died and continued to die away. The invisible birds sang their tune and the crickets chirped. The grass grew and swayed in the breeze and the water rushed.

But all Stinky could see was the fake pennies.

"This really bites."

HA


End file.
